


In the Chamber of the King

by Galadriel



Series: In the Halls of the King [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Branding, Community: lotr_sesa, Danger, Drugged Sex, Drugging, Hatesex, Imprisonment, M/M, Non-Consensual, Penetration, Restraints, Sex Pollen, Temperature Play, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 02:09:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17235341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/pseuds/Galadriel
Summary: After enduring the horror of Spiders in so many, many ways, Thorin finds himself confronting a new peril, alone in the chamber of the King.





	In the Chamber of the King

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Savageseraph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savageseraph/gifts).



> Dearest Savageseraph, you are the only person in the world who could get me to write this, because I thought I'd left well enough alone. But no. Of course not. So here you are, and I say with surprising assuredness, exactly what you want, and exactly what you deserve. Happy Holidays, madame. May this story tick off all the most twisted of boxes for you. Enjoy!
> 
> (And as always, many thanks to Empy, for egging me on as I delve into new depths of depravity. With friends like you two... <3)

Thorin passed in and out of consciousness. A flash of light here, a stretch of blackness there. The guttering of torches was replaced in the blink of an eye with soft, steady lamps. The scratching, slicing gravel gave way to smooth, bruising cobblestone under his knees. Time had become slippery, a blade without a hilt, sliding through his fingers, slicing at his skin. He was dimly aware that he was being dragged, two sets of hands underneath each arm, neither set interested in raising him up away from the floor. 

He could feel the dregs of a thick, sticky fluid trickling down his legs, dripping on the floor, leaving a trail behind him like a lowly snail. The parts of his mind that were beginning to rouse registered distant disgust, pushing away the still-fresh memories of his most recent ordeal. 

When the blackness threatened the edges of his consciousness again, he welcomed it, sinking gratefully into the unknown.

When he came to himself again, it was to the rushing onslaught of water, thundering in his ears, over his head, down his body. He sputtered, trying and failing not to breathe it in, gasping and choking against this new invasion. 

As he blinked against the torrent, desperately trying to clear his eyes, fragments of his situation swam into view. Cold tiles under his knees, iron clasped around his wrists, anchored to the floor by chain and link, the sluicing, grey water draining through a grate a foot away. Even as he coughed against the unending stream, fruitlessly twisting and turning, he could feel sweat, dirt and unnatural fluids washing away from his skin, leaving him fresh, clean and new.

All set for whatever perversities the Elven King still had in mind for him.

He shuddered at that thought, his body clenching miserably as memories of his recent stint with the Spider mixed and mingled with the potential and promise of more intimate torture at the hands of Thranduil himself. He was still shuddering when the water abruptly stopped, and his eyes and ears cleared. He could hear voices, simultaneously lilting and sharp, growing louder and more caustic as he lifted his head. Through blurry eyes he glimpsed the uniform of Thranduil's personal guard, muted greens and reds running together through the water droplet prisms hanging from Thorin's eyelashes. There was a jangling from behind him, along with a sudden sense of release, and then he was being hauled up again, hands under armpits, until he could stumble forward on his own two feet.

The tiles were slick, and it was only the guards who kept him from crashing back down. While he was no longer chained to the floor, the manacles remained, each link clicking and clanking as he moved. More harsh words he could not understand filled his ears as he was prodded forward, half-pushed, half-dragged over the floor's grating and out into the hallway beyond the door.

They did not offer him a towel, or even a modest scrap to cover his nakedness. Instead, he was left to stumble as they dragged him, body utterly exposed, cold air his only covering, his member slapping against his thighs, cheeks bared to all who passed by. He knew that this was another in Thranduil's little tricks, meant to make Thorin brittle, easily broken like a badly-tempered blade, but Thorin took some small comfort in knowing that in being exposed, even involuntarily, he was offering up an extensive insult. If only his hands were free so that he could wiggle his prick at each ridiculously prim elf they passed. It brought back memories of too much wine and too much youth and a great deal of entertainment with equally drunk dwarven companions, busily vying for the most scandalous display. The corners of his mouth tugged upward, a grim smile meant to hang on to remembrances that disrupted Thranduil's intended ordeal.

By the time they stopped in front of a large, ornate oaken door, Thorin was far warmer, and nearly dry. He was certain his legs and knees were newly-bruised, but the chill from the water had long since left his bones. He frowned as he looked up at the door: impossibly tall, impeccably carved, it was a testament to craftsmanship that did nothing but stick in Thorin's craw. How dare these cutthroat elves, twisted by their own contempt and perversity, exhibit the kind of artistry that could conjure delicate whorls and perfect swirls from woodgrain. Thorin shut his eyes, gritting his teeth, and turned his head away from the towering vines and berries, the lines and curves that turned these planks of wood into a breathtaking exhibition of skill. If he did not look at it, he would not need to spend one more moment wondering at the union of hand and chisel, fingers and polish. He would certainly not need to wonder at what else those hands could do.

He heard the creak of hinges, and drank in an ounce of satisfaction that the craftsman had not attended to the most basic of details. He felt the cool stone of the hallway give way to the wood threshold, and then change again into soft, plush carpet. When he opened his eyes, he was momentarily dazzled by a embarrassment of candles, spread over every available space, just waiting for an errant draft to set the room alight. 

In the centre of the space was a rounded bed on a dais, utterly impractical in shape. Filmy, almost transparent panels of fabric fell in long, soft loops from the ceiling, just barely offering the suggestion of privacy. A mountain of pillows of all shapes and sizes, some with tassels, some with corded edging, some with delicate fringing took up most of the space at the head of the bed. 

The whole space was glittering red and gold, the colours of Autumn caught in velvet and jewels. It was a place that spoke of decadence, not leadership, a place of indulgence and sloth rather than respite from rule. 

The guards wrestled Thorin onto the dais, and then onto the bed. He growled and struggled against them, his anger resurfacing at how easily they manhandled him into place. Perhaps there were still remnants of the Spider's venom in his veins, keeping him dull and slow. Or perhaps he was losing his keener edge, becoming a blunt object, no longer suitable for the warrior's wage. Either way, once he was flat on his back on the voluptuous fur coverings, they stretched his arms above his head, attaching the manacles to a large iron ring sunk into the wall. 

It was there that they left him, exposed, angry, and pinned like an insect. And once the guards withdrew, utterly alone.

He spent the first while yanking at his chains, twisting and pushing and pulling at the links, attempting to gain purchase so he could sit up on the bed. Instead, all he managed to do was to wrinkle and ruck the furs beneath him, sliding awkwardly around like a tumbled rock. Even when he stretched his legs, he could not reach the edge of the bed. He was marooned in the middle, the fancy pillows the only things in reach.

Perhaps he could scratch off Thranduil's smug smile with the edge of button. 

Thorin sighed, giving up his struggle for the moment, letting his eyes roam around the rest of the room. The flickering shadows hid as much as they revealed, but he gained a good impression of the state of the space he was in. Furs and jewels were carelessly tossed on every available space, robes and shifts hanging over the backs of a set of chairs, draped over the top edges of a three-panelled folding screen. Thorin squinted at the screen, then snorted, once he realized the finely embroidered pictures were of Thranduil in battle. Thranduil on a pure white stag at the head of an impossibly large army; Thranduil locked in deadly combat with a proud man on a dappled horse; Thranduil on his feet, surrounded by bodies, artfully splattered with his enemies' blood, driving his sparkling sword into the chest of a cowering orc.

The utter self-absorption was galling. Frankly, Thorin was surprised that these depictions did not also portray Thranduil with his member at full mast. He turned his head away from the decadent imagery, and stared straight up through the draperies to the stone ceiling above. At least that was something solid and true he could fix on: the reliability of a strong, dense piece of stone.

At some point, exhaustion overtook Thorin. Silence punctuated only by the guttering of the candles; soft, warm blankets at his back: these were inducements to let his eyes close, his mind rest. He was drowsy with the room's heat. The candles gave off more than their share of warmth, and it was soothing after the cell, the Spider, and the shower. It worked its way into his muscles, allowing his breath to slow, his body to relax and sleep. Perhaps, he thought, as he drifted into Irmo's and Estë's welcoming arms, Thranduil had found himself another plaything; perhaps eventually, Thorin would be remembered just long enough to be returned to his cell and his companions who must be, even now, worrying after his fate. 

He awoke with a sudden jerk. Pressure on his chest, pressure at his sides, a sudden reminder that he was not a guest freely enjoying a bed. He grunted, his eyes flying open, and was greeted by Thranduil's face only inches from his own. "Are you awake, little King of Nothing? I do not wish to upset your rest."

Sparing hardly a thought, Thorin sucked in some air, puckered his lips and spat straight up. A gob of phlegm, large and green and grey, splattered against Thranduil's cheek, spreading across his face. He smirked. His aim was not perfect, and he could feel the spray raining back down on him, but it was satisfying all the same. He growled out a dwarven curse, one of his favourites since childhood, and while he was certain that Thranduil did not understand the words, his contempt was very clear.

Thranduil's palm stung as it came into contact with Thorin's face. "Do not test me, Child of Aulë. It is at my pleasure that you and your companions remain... _intact_. It would be no hardship to me to reverse that decision." He wiped his fingers over the spit, gripping Thorin's face in his free hand, and squeezing until Thorin's lips parted. "I believe this belongs to you." Thranduil shoved his fingers into Thorin's mouth, scraping the pads over Thorin's teeth. "Think twice before you bite, little dwarf. That would end badly for you indeed."

Unceremoniously returned, the gob tasted of metal and dirt. 

"What is it you want from me?" Thorin's throat was tight, his words sharp and biting. He was certain that each verbal parry with the Elven King cut into him, leaving his throat raw and bloody. A war of words was not what he was prepared for.

"I believe you already know." Thranduil smiled down at Thorin. "Now that my _guest_ has had you, I intend to sample the same dish. But do not worry. I am not as inexperienced as he was. I am certain you will enjoy our dalliance."

As Thranduil spoke, he reached behind himself, pushing his robe up and out of the way. It fanned out from his hips, settling down around them both, covering Thorin's legs. Heavy and soft, the warmth of it was undeniable, and it dragged against his skin as Thranduil shifted forward, then back on his haunches, keeping Thorin pinned beneath. The feel of the robe was so overwhelming, so lush, deep and soft, that it took a moment for Thorin to realize that beneath the robe, Thranduil was bare.

Elven flesh pressed against dwarven flesh. Thorin stifled a disgusted groan. Despite knowing the Elf King was ancient, his nearly hairless body was far too close to a beardless youth, a notion that left Thorin cold.

Yet despite the disparity in hair, Thorin could not deny the thick, hard prick pressed against his thigh. It felt far larger than it had a right to be, and far harder than Thorin thought possible.

As Thorin shifted uncomfortably, fighting the distraction of full-body disgust, he watched Thranduil reach into a hidden inner pocket in his robe, the gesture exposing a smooth white chest and softly red nipples to his view.

Thranduil's fingers slipped nimbly into the pocket, brushing lightly over his breast. When he withdrew them, they held a small white packet, delicate and nearly translucent, encasing some sort of loose mixture heaped near the bottom seam. Thranduil smiled, and the quirk of his mouth reminded Thorin of staring straight into a mass of dragon's teeth. All danger, all malice, and satisfaction at what those things would mean. 

As Thorin watched, eyes wide, Thranduil flicked open the flap at the top of the packet and sprinkled the contents in his upturned palm. "This," Thranduil murmured, pushing the powder around in his hand, "is a little something that will help you feel _all_." He smiled. "It is a mix of lissuin and seregon, and a little something else." The smile turned into a grin. "Very rare, and very sought after. You should be grateful I am willing to share with you."

Thorin swallowed, bucked his hips, trying to push Thranduil away. He was seized with the sudden certainty that this was the end, or at least the beginning of an endless cycle of venoms and poisons and pills. "No more! No more!" He had only just felt the last of the Spider's influence bleed away; there was no need for more potions and herbs to remove his senses, to keep him under the Elf King's spell. 

Thranduil laughed, still straddling Thorin as if he were an unruly horse. "Now, now. This is not like the venom you tasted before. This is but an enhancement, a way to uncover your deepest desires." Suddenly, Thranduil's hand shot out, his fingers curling around Thorin's throat. His grip was firm and insistent, not quite choking, but threatening all the same. As Thorin watched, Thranduil leaned down, flattened his palm, and blew.

That was all the powder needed to take flight. It hung in the air, motes of blood red and pure white, sparkling in the light as it fell. _Aulë save him_. Thorin held his breath, desperate not to inhale it, not to find out what desires it attend to.

Thranduil's fingers tightened around Thorin's throat. "Be a good dwarf," he murmured, seemingly unconcerned as a few specks were drawn into his mouth. "At least one of us will enjoy this, and it will go easier for you if it is both us two." 

Thorin struggled, his chest tight. He could feel his body constricting, begging him to take just one small breath. He yanked against the chains holding him in place, shook his head and closed his eyes, trying to rid himself of the powder as if he were a giant hound. Sparks danced beneath his eyelids. Like a forge, his lungs burned. His ears rang with a sound like an anvil, a sharp, reverberating knell. It was hopeless, but Thorin hoped all the same. If only he could manage to shut out air for a few moments more. If only he could outlast the settling particles...

His lips parted, and he gasped, drawing in a great draught of air. 

He had done it. Other than the faintest traces of a taste like honey on his tongue, he had breathed in nothing. Nothing but clear, fresh, brisk air--

Thranduil chuckled, and blew on his palm once again. 

It felt as if the powder was everywhere. The grit in the corners of his eyes, the silt on the back of his tongue. He tasted honey again, stronger this time, coating and covering the taste of meat and gristle. His vision swam. He could not be certain, but it appeared as if Thranduil was licking his palm, delicately swiping his tongue over his fingertips, indecently sucking each finger into his mouth before letting his hand fall. 

"Mmm." Thranduil licked his lips. "Did I not say you would not be harmed?" He grinned. "Not by my mixture, anyway." He reached out, touching Thorin's chest, drawing his fingertips lightly down Thorin's skin. Thorin's mind recoiled even as the touch itself tingled, a cool shivering spark that trailed all the way down his midsection. "Really, you dwarves are so dour. Hardly built for pleasure; one wonders what your purpose is at all."

"Let me go," Thorin growled. "I will not submit to be your plaything." He clamped his teeth down, trapping and swallowing a _Not again_. He would claw his way through the stone walls of Thranduil's chamber rather than submit to his tricks again. He would burrow his way through mortar, scratch his fingers raw, rather than spend another moment under threat of Thranduil's pet. 

Once again, Thorin shuddered. Was the air in this room cooling? Did the great King of Mirkwood live in a drafty hall?

Yet the way Thranduil chuckled sent shivers up from the base of Thorin's spine. "I do not think you have much choice, little throneless king. You have already submitted--" he reached up to rattle the chains pinning Thorin to the wall, "--and I certainly intend to play with whatever _toy_ I desire."

Thorin gasped. As Thranduil spoke, he slid his hand between their bodies, his long fingers cupping Thorin's balls. Thranduil rolled them lightly back and forth, as if weighing and measuring, before letting his sharp nails scratch against Thorin's tender skin. Thorin's hips jerked, his body rising off the bed. Each scratch was like an icicle, shooting straight to the base of his skull. 

"Ah, I see it is beginning to work." Thranduil's smile was all the more wicked for the satisfaction behind it. "It heightens the senses, does it not? A little edge to everything might make it easier for you to enjoy." 

Against his better judgement, Thorin arched into Thranduil's touch. Thranduil's hand was warm--blessedly, blessedly warm--and he was loathe to give it up. "What have you done to me?" he gasped. He could feel his skin cooling, each brush of fur, each infinitesimally light touch like ice slicing through him, painfully sharp. 

"You are a creature of fire, are you not?" Thranduil chuckled as he leaned across Thorin's body, his prick rubbing against Thorin's thigh, the broad, heavy pressure almost unbearably hot. Thorin swallowed heavily; he felt as if he was being branded by an overheated hammer, but instead of screaming in pain, all he felt was a strange, searing pleasure. As if all he wanted was to become molten metal, to dissolve into flame. 

Thorin blinked rapidly, his vision momentarily clouded by a surge of heat and lust. These feelings were utterly alien, utterly vile, as if coming from outside of himself. Yet with each passing moment, all he wished for was more contact, more heat to stoke the forge inside of him. 

When he looked up, it was to an expectant Thranduil, holding a brightly burning taper in his hand. "Did you hear me, little coal? Do not burn too brightly just yet. There is still more I want from you." Thorin wondered, as Thranduil licked his lips, if the elf's breath would burn his skin or freeze him solid. "As I said, I have merely gifted you with a shard of the Winter's cold. It sets its imbiber to seek out the Spring. It suspends you in that moment when the frozen lake breaks open and lets in the heat of the sun." Another chuckle; a sound Thorin found was easy to hate, and then the sudden sharp sizzle of wax hitting his skin. He cried out, tugging against his chains, hips rising and rolling against Thranduil's body, the sensation almost too much for him to take. 

"I suppose I should have expected it, but I certainly did not, my tiny ember." Distantly, Thorin raged against the increasingly insulting pet names. "I should have anticipated that one of Aulë's accidents would be far more affected by hot and cold." Thorin opened his mouth, a sharp retort on the tip of his tongue, when another splash of wax hit the midsection of his torso. To his great shame, he lost himself to the sensation, each new drizzle wrenching another shudder from him.

The worst part was the way Thranduil's aim improved as he turned the candle. Droplets hitting Thorin's nipples, sliding down his chest... Each new point of contact brought him closer to screaming, and scream he did when Thranduil shifted backward to expose his prick to the wax. 

He had no idea when it had happened, but he had a horrible inkling the powder was at fault; he was as hard as a soldier's spear, newly-forged and awaiting the slack tub. Each waxy droplet was like fire applied to molten metal, each one a desperate plea trapped in the back of his throat.

"Excellent," Thranduil murmured. "Better than I could have hoped." He smiled down at Thorin, and brushed his hair almost tenderly away from his face. "Ask for what you want, King of Nothing. Ask for the fiery mountain you have lost." Thranduil turned the candle on its head, pressing the wick to Thorin's skin. As the cry left Thorin's lips, as the flame went out, he felt his member twitch. 

Thranduil did not miss the movement either, wrapping his long fingers around Thorin's shaft. He moved his hand in slow strokes, rubbing at the flecks of wax. Thorin's whole body felt as if it were aflame. Hot and cold, singed and pierced, desperately wanting. _More heat. More heat. More heat._

Thorin whimpered, licked his lips. Every muscle and sinew felt raw. He struggled against it, closed his eyes to it, pushed every thought of it from his mind. 

Still, it was a shock to feel his lips shaping around it, forming around the words. It was worse to hear his own voice, ragged and desperate, begging his mortal enemy. "Please." He swallowed. "Please. More heat. _More heat_."

"As you wish, Your Highness." Thranduil's tone was mocking, but the moment he touched Thorin's thighs, urging them open, Thorin lost the will to be angry. He could feel the elf moving above him, and he gasped as slick, cold fingers pressed against his entrance. Part of his mind knew he should be grateful for even a little bit of preparation, but Thranduil's fingers felt like they had been dipped in the frigid depths of a cold-running stream. He gasped as they withdrew, shivering heavily at the sensation of cold from within, and whimpered softly as he shifted his hips, wordlessly asking for relief.

The heat from Thranduil's hips was a small reassurance as he positioned himself, pressing the head of his prick against Thorin. Time itself held its breath as Thorin waited for a little mercy, a little thrust.

When it came, it was brutal, but so welcome all the same. Thranduil growled as he pressed forward. "I know just how to _stoke_ your flame."

"Aulë' _take_ me," Thorin cried. "For his sake, give me _more_." He moved with Thranduil's thrusts, shocked at his delight in the stretch and heft. It was almost more than he could take, but more was all he wanted now. He was the forge to be stoked, Thranduil the blacksmith, and every stroke brought him to new heights. The heat was building now, burning in his core, chasing away every hint of frost that had threatened to spread through him, to stop his blood in his veins. 

Yet even as he clenched and shuddered around Thranduil, even as he bucked beneath him and begged for more, it was not quite enough. His prick throbbed, trapped between dwarf and elf, and the friction should have been more than enough to tip him towards release. He bit his lip, gripping Thranduil tighter, wishing for an ever more intense heat. 

Thranduil grunted, pressing heavily against him, body folding over with the thrust. His teeth were sharp against Thorin's ear, another stinging bite of frost. "So eager, for all your protests." His tongue traced the whorl of Thorin's ear. "Perhaps you should wear it, that eagerness, as a brand upon your skin." Thorin could feel the quirk of Thranduil's lips, a tight smile pressed against his neck. "I have one, you know. A brand for all my favourite... pets." Thranduil's fingers gripped Thorin's chin again, forcing his head to the side. "Look. See what I have prepared for you? Think about how that would feel."

Thorin's eyes were no more than slits as he peered at the small table just beyond the edge of the bed. It curved with the dais, custom made, and held more than the tapers Thranduil had already made free with. There, in the middle of the table, sat a small twisted iron rod. Its handle rested in a carved stone holder, the end suspended over a pillar candle. This was no makeshift device: the candle was many-wicked, spread out to heat evenly, and the holder carved to fit so the user could retrieve it without worry of a burn. The shape of the head of the rod was strange. Curving scrollwork in a short Elvish phrase, completely unreadable to Thorin's eyes. 

_Yes_. A flame-heated iron, metal on flesh, the searing shock and biting burn. That would do it. That was what Thorin needed, the perfect fuel to set him alight. " _Yes_. Yes, do it." 

He could hear the surprise in Thranduil's voice. "Indeed? Far be it for me to not do as my little king commands." Thorin kept his eyes shut tight, kept rocking into Thranduil's thrusts. He focussed on the weight of his manacles, the way they had warmed to his skin. Fever-bright and burning, no more thoughts invaded his mind. 

He heard the clink of metal, the skittering of iron on stone. The Elf King clicked his tongue as he stretched beyond Thorin, reaching for the handle. How Thranduil stayed within him, he could hardly imagine, but he was grateful for it. Grateful to burn inside and out, Thranduil a candle, his brand a blaze. 

For one long, agonizing moment, Thranduil's movements stopped. Thorin could not stop the whimper that escaped his tight throat. He could feel the heat of the brand before it even touched him, a whisper of heat above his hip. And it took every fibre of his being not to thrust himself up to meet it.

When the iron met his flesh it was as if he had been dropped in a volcano, consumed by and become flame. His body clenched around Thranduil, as his shudders turned to convulsions, his prick twitching and jumping between them both. Mouth open and gasping, he had no breath left for cries. His come spattered on his stomach, smears of molten lead. 

Blackness threatened the edges of his vision, and for a long moment, that was all he knew.

When he came back to himself, it was to the smell of seared flesh, the cooling of sweated skin. Thranduil still lay above him, still in him, his prick slowly slipping free. One long breath, then another; Thorin no longer desired frost nor flame. The powder Thranduil had forced on him no longer held him in its grasp. 

He groaned, shifted, and winced at the feel of tight, tender skin. In response, the elf raised his head, and smiled down at him. "Well done, my willing playmate." His fingers were back in Thorin's hair. "What a delight you have become. Perhaps you dwarves are useful for some things." 

Thranduil's fingers wandered over Thorin's body, mapping each inch of pleasure and pain. They settled above his hip, framing tender, raw skin. "We shall have to show your companions where your new loyalties lie." 

Thorin sucked in a breath, his mind slowly clearing and sorting through the events of this day. What had he done? Oh, Eru, what had he asked for? Worse than that, what did the blasted brand _say_?

There was that smirk again, all arrogance and imperiousness. Thorin felt a chill slide through him, from the base of his skull to his balls to his toes. Surely, there was some way to heal the brand, to make it disappear as if it had never existed. Surely, there was some salve, some herb, some reversible process to be followed. His heart thundered in his chest, blood heating up his cheeks. There was no scenario on this earth where he could ever confide the extent of this injury to his fellow dwarves. 

He shut his eyes tight, bit his lip, and wished for free hands to stop his ears. Yet there was nothing to be done, nothing but to let the knowledge wash over him, to come to know what his own folly, his own treacherous desires has permanently wrought.

The Elf King's voice was full of satisfaction, of amusement and delight. "You have turned out to be such a pleasing little playmate." It was far worse than his anger, and froze Thorin to the spot. "I told you, did I not, that it would go easier if you did not resist? I cannot say I have ever had a pet beg so prettily to bear my name."

In the dark behind Thorin's eyelids, twin flames of shame and anger flickered. In the deeper darkness of his heart, something desperate and desirous flared.


End file.
